


Waves of Cold

by benignneglect



Series: It'd Probably be Better to be Numb [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Gio is evil, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Parents Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but not that evil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benignneglect/pseuds/benignneglect
Summary: All Mickey wants is to be a good father. The last thing he wants is to scare his kid.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: It'd Probably be Better to be Numb [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724692
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	1. The Worst Horror of All

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hate me. I'm evil but I'm not THAT evil. Please just trust me.
> 
> Also, I know this is incredibly short and I thought about extending it but it kind of works as it is. 
> 
> Another note, I have zero patience so I rushed to post this but I'm also a little bit of a perfectionist so I might come back to edit it.

Lilly Milkovich was born to be a tornado. Her parents were sure she’d grow up to be a Spartan Warrior. But for now, she was raging through the terrible twos. Which currently meant she was doing her best impression of Braveheart. Charging at Mickey in a wobbly sprint, spoon pointed menacingly, giggling through her own damn war noises. Naturally, it'd end with him scooping up his beast of a daughter and spinning her round in a fit of giggles.

The warrior gig turned into a sort of ritual. Mickey couldn't help but grin every time he heard the thud of a spoon or the start of an excited babble. He always knew when she was coming so it worked and it worked fucking well. He was gaining a sense of control and more importantly, having fun with his goddamn daughter. But Mickey should've known it'd all come crashing down. Because life was slippery and unpredictable. Plans were as much a part of it as sheer dumb luck. And since when had luck been on Mickey's side?

All it took was a little slip. Like Mickey napping through his daughter's battle plans. The waddling warrior charged with delight, weapon at the ready, babbling and giggling and shrieking. But her daddy never scooped her up. He must've been really sleepy. Upset with the lack of response, she scanned her two year-old brain for the next logical step. Crawling on her dad and trying to break up his snores with her spoon. And the waddling warrior was relentless. She thought she was in on a funny joke. That her daddy would continue playing. What she didn't expect was the sudden tumble backwards, the shock of the landing causing her to scream. Ian rushed in like a frantic father while Mickey froze in place like a useless one. All he felt was sheer terror when he realized his worst nightmare was real. And it wasn't the one he'd woken from. 

He'd been back in Mexico, lounging on the beach and admiring his husband. He should've been burning to bits but the pasty fucker found some kind of medical loophole. Apparently, he was immune to the sun. And in a twist of dream logic, Mickey had to coat himself in enough sunblock for the two of them. But Mickey had no room for complaint. Not when he was enjoying the beach with his two great loves, Lilly curled up in Ian's arms, soundly asleep. He tried to reach out for his daughter but his armor of sunblock held him captive. He pushed a little harder but his skin wasn't moving. His body wouldn't respond to his commands but they must've transferred to Lilly somehow because she started screaming for him. And he desperately tried reaching for his daughter but paternal duty meant nothing with the new constraints. He couldn't even nurture his own fucking child, protect her from the hovering seagulls, or assure her he hadn't abandoned her. Because he never, ever would. But he was helpless to the wet on his skin beginning to harden and hold him in place. The vulnerability was too familiar. He needed Ian to look at him. But he was invisible. Helpless. Alone. And that was too familiar. He'd break out in begs if he had the ability. But instead he was stuck with a useless hope. And Ian would never look at him. Not when he was far too busy coaxing their screaming child. But the screaming of his little stargazer only intensified, drawing the attention of a gang of seagulls. All it took was a slap or a swat or a hiss. But Mickey, in a state of paralysis, could only sit in horror when they started pecking and prodding him. The jabs became harder, faster, colder, harsher. He must've been a mangled corpse by the time that Ian finally faced him. But there wasn't a thread of love or care in his expression. Not a thread of Ian at all. In a flash of horror, he found himself under the scrutiny of Terry's scowl. But the voice was still Ian's. "Daddy can't hold you, silly. Daddy is dead."

His muscles moved before his eyes popped open, his voice erupting in a string of Nos. The throbbing numbness of his skin died down and he registered his body's movements one at a time. First, he felt the cold sweat that coated his skin mixing with the night air, waves of cold and dread washing over him. Next was the thump, thump, thump of his heart. His shirt soaked. His hairs standing on end. The scratchy comfort of the living room couch. He felt a wave of fleeting warmth, remembering his daughter was safe. Happy, safe, and loved. He was doing a damn good job. But a shot of ice seized his heart and held it still when he registered the shrieks of his daughter. Curled in a ball at his feet, shrieking a shriek of impending doom. The worst horror of all. His daughter was frightened of him.


	2. All That He Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey addresses his past so he can finally look to the future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm sorry. This chapter is also going to be short because that's just how I write. I'm hoping in the future to branch out a bit but I'm honestly proud of this story even if it's not as riveting as I wish it could be. But I really do write from the heart and so the story takes it's own lead. I have no idea how long this story is going to be. But I'm going to do right by everyone in this story. Except for Terry. Fuck Terry (he's dead btw). In case it isn't clear enough, TERRY IS NOT MICKEY TERRY IS NOT MICKEY TERRY IS NOT MICKEY.
> 
> Side note, I know there hasn't been much Ian and Mickey romance. And I promise that's to come. But I can assure you that Ian will stick by his husband throughout. And that both would do anything to keep the other safe and happy.

Waves of warmth relaxed his blood and soothed his heart when he began to remember. Ridiculous smiles and bad jokes. Splashes of color and half-eaten food. A family of three in a bubble of safety. And he selfishly let the warmth of the memories soothe him. But Mickey knew he'd have to wake up soon.

He didn't wake up in his own bed that he shared with Ian and he didn't wake up smoothly. He'd grown used to the sweaty cling of the sheets. The sound of tiny, petulant feet outside their door. For once, he was in a place in his life where he could afford to wake up slowly. Not catapult out of bed but slowly bask in the scene of this new domestic life. Even the walls felt different from the Milkovich home. Some invisible comfort surrounded the home and held his heart where it could beat gently in his chest. He'd fought like hell to just finally be allowed to rest.

But this time, he woke up overly exposed. Not a catapult. But the slow weight of the night before seeping throughout. He wanted to crawl back into his dreams but he couldn't hold still. It was far too late. The dread was written in the walls, pounding against him. The cold air wrapped around his skin and shrank his heart. Things were different but he couldn't remember what changed. Until the one thing that scared him most seized him in a jolt. And he barfed into the carpet. 

Everything sort of flashed and immediately closed in. It culminated in some bitter drop. He lost it. She was two and he’d already fucked it all up. She used to look at him like he hung the moon in the sky. And a toddler’s memory was for shit. So maybe she’d look at him like that the next day. But maybe that just made it all the worse.

He could sense Ian talking to him but he was out of focus. He turned on the lights so there was nowhere for his conscience to run. It didn't matter what Ian said. He'd gotten used to that warmth in small doses just to be cruelly stripped away. He couldn't take the layer of cold sweat that stuck to him and ground him in place. He missed the warmth and color of the day before. It passed through his mind to paint the walls yellow, trap the loving air and banish his disappointment. Fill the place with furniture. He resented the cold night air and the dimness it brought to this already horrifying moment. In the end, it was all about hope. The hope that his family gave him. A new and unfamiliar hope that it probably wasn't too late to fight for.

After all, Lilly would continue to love him and need him. But she really shouldn’t. Because last night, he was his father. Context had fuck all to do with it. Only a monster could shake a child’s trust like that. He didn’t care how much Ian told him differently. He wouldn’t be touched. He wouldn’t be held. He wouldn’t let himself soften and melt. He was far too hardened and far too ugly. And he’d only continue to deteriorate. It's not that Mickey ever wanted to die. But he refused to fear the inevitable. Especially when he'd grown used to hanging on by a thread. Better to live dangerously than tread carefully. Because it hadn't ever mattered in the first place. There was no being careful in the Milkovich home. No guidelines to avoid his father's blind rages. Because his father already hated him. Terry simply enjoyed pushing him around and beating him bloody. Berating him into tears. Terry was simply an unhappy man who thrived on the fight. But Mickey still wanted his father. He was all that he had. 

So he did something he never thought he'd do. He visited Terry's grave. In actuality, a dumping site in some abandoned woody area. Really, it was a satisfying ending for such a cold-blooded man. The memory was fresh and alive but the man himself was festering. Just like he deserved. He thought to do something like piss on his grave but somewhere in his soul, he'd only feel as rotten as his father's corpse. He certainly wouldn't waste his jack daniels on that piece of shit. For once in his life, Mickey got to fucking talk and so he did. In a stilted waver, he addressed his father. The words felt misshapen to him but they managed to stumble out. "I came here for advice actually." Because he always needed to ask. And that was that. It's not that he expected the mound of dirt to spew lines of poetry at him. It wasn't about a response at all. This was only for Mickey, only for closure. To finally find the space to speak those words comfortably. And he wasn't so sure his father deserved them. He sat for a long time and poured his guts out. He guzzled down the whiskey without care. Waves of nausea pierced through him but he didn't fucking care. About anything at all. Not his mud stained pants or ambitious ants or pools of whiskey in the mud, seeping their way into his father's make shift corpse. 

Mickey always hated people who’d leave. Probably more than the monsters who’d stay. But he had been a child then, a ragdoll for his father’s rage. It’s not that he could ever justify or even imagine breaking a child. Or mocking their hurt. Actually taking pleasure in abusing the trust of something so small and desperately reaching out for love. He simply forgot sometimes that he was a child just like any other. He was never spared from the cruelty of the real world yet somehow, he always maintained a child's naivete. So leaving wasn’t what he wanted. But want was a worthless concept. It was what his family needed. He’d resisted for as long as he could. But the problem was out of his hands and he needed to be a fuck ton better. He needed to truly and finally leave his father in the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ps, I know I'm very verbose. I'm not purposefully trying to stuff it with as much vocabulary as possible. I just really love words and how they work together to convey so much beauty.

**Author's Note:**

> No child was seriously hurt in the making of this chapter. Lilly had a little shock but wasn't injured. I keep telling you I am NOT that evil. This is a story of recovery and coping. Lilly's tumble was minor. That little girl is never getting seriously hurt under my watch.


End file.
